


(rich kid asshole, paint me) as a villain

by lipgallagher



Series: (shoot the lights out, hide) till its bright out [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Insomnia, M/M, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Recreational Drug Use, Snow Ball (Stranger Things)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:52:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/pseuds/lipgallagher
Summary: Billy strolls up from out of nowhere, smoking a cigarette and wearing the clothes he left Steve's place in, earlier, and a dumb as hell denim jacket, like maybe he's got amilliondumb ugly jackets at home, like maybe he thinks that'snormal, like maybe it would fuckingkillhim to just dress like everybody else, or something, and he's asking Mike, "Hold up,who'sa dumb slut?""Ourbabysitter," Mike says, rolling his eyes.Billy leans down to look through Steve's passenger side window, lifts his hand to his mouth to drag at his cigarette, makes eye contact with Steve, looking vaguely amused, but.Billyalwayslooks vaguely amused.Hungry, bored, amused.The holy trinity offuckingpsychopathy.ALTERNATIVELY: a couple days in the life of steve harrington, hawkins' local reluctant sleepover king who smokes weed and eats ice cream every day.





	(rich kid asshole, paint me) as a villain

**Author's Note:**

> 1 some writers Properly suffer for their writing and then theres some writers who just listen to bruce springsteens _born in the usa_ (the song, not the entire album, That would be a bit much) about seventeen times even though they arent fans of bruce springsteen, really, at all, and would actually love to never hear a springsteen song ever again. i am obviously the kind of writer who properly suffers. obviously.
> 
> 2a if you are at all like me, you dont like reading just one instalment of a series. just to be clear, in this case, reading the first part of this series isnt necessary. nothing has really veered off canon, you should be just fine. if you have already read the first part, great! if you havent but you plan to, thats also great! but please do keep in mind that that fic is essentially just about billy hargrove being a fucking terror, and may be triggering for some people (particularly abuse survivors, i feel but? maybe other people, too idk) and this fic features a lot less of that, but there are still definite hints at racism, domestic abuse, child abuse, etc because billy hargroves in this fic too. 
> 
> 2b im still not a billy hargrove apologist lmao. 
> 
> 2c i wasnt really sure how to tag for this, and im not too sure how to explain it here, either, but its kind of a consistent theme in this fic that steve is constantly on edge around billy bc!!! he canonically nearly killed steve with almost no provocation, and in my experience thats not really something you just move past so. theres that as well. 
> 
> 3 you have my most sincere apologies, in advance, as ever.

Steve is halfway through making another batch of brownies when the phone rings.

He's hesitant about answering it, because it _could_ be one of his parents, and _that_ would be annoying, and it could be one of the _kids_ ' parents, about to ask him to do something, which would  _also_  be annoying, but it could  _also_  be Billy, who left his ugly leather jacket at Steve's house and is _bound_ to come back looking for it at _any_ minute, and that's almost  _definitely_  going to be the _single_ most annoying thing Steve's _ever_ had to deal with in his entire life, and that's  _even_  including all the demogorgon shit.

He sighs, grabs the phone at what's probably the  _last_ possible second, answers, "Hello, Harrington residence." 

"Hi, is this Steve?" 

"Yes?"

"Well, now, I'm Claudia, I'm Dustin's mother, I don't know if you—"

"Of course, right, I remember you. Hi." 

"Hi, sweetheart. How are you, is everything okay?" 

He blinks, glances around his empty kitchen, like maybe something's about to jump out and murder him.

To be fair, it  _is_  possible.

He  _is_  still anticipating Billy's return, after all, so.

"Yeah, uh. Yes? Everything's good." 

"Oh, that's  _great_. Now, listen, Dusty told me earlier that you were going to take the kids for something to eat after they're done seeing that movie?"

This is news to  _Steve_ , but he goes, "Yep, that's, uh. That's  _definitely_  what I'm doing; it's gonna be a blast." 

"Bless you, honey. I just wanted to make sure he told you that film they're seeing is about two and a half hours, I think. Just so you don't end up wasting any of your time waiting for them before they're done." 

Two and a half  _fucking_  hours?

What the  _fuck_  kind of dumbass nerd movie lasts for _two and a half hours_?

 _Christ_. 

No wonder none of their parents wanted to drive them around today.

No  _fucking_  wonder.

"Thanks so much, Ms Henderson."

"Oh, don't thank  _me_ , honey, thank  _you_! Now, I'd love it if you could try to get Dusty home by eleven?"   

"Will do," says Steve, who is actually planning on getting Dustin home by nine-thirty, at the fucking  _latest_ , because it's not like he's got anything _better_ to do, but he's still  _not_  spending his entire night with those prepubescent geeks. 

 _All_  they do is just hang around in the Wheeler's basement and read boring books and talk shit about monsters that don't even really exist. 

And, fine, that  _has_  proven to  _sometimes_  be a useful thing, but. 

 _Most_  of the time, to be  _clear_ , they are, in fact, just wasting their time talking about fake shit. 

It's dumb as hell.

They're friends with  _girls_ , now, and Steve's pretty sure they still don't know what the  _hell_  they're doing, there, at  _all_.

They're almost  _totally_  hopeless. 

And Steve is eighteen years old. He's graduating high school, soon. He's relatively attractive, he's got hair that goddamn _beauty queens_  would be jealous of, and he's got a _really_ sweet car. _Fuck_ whatever Billy says, he's _still_ King Steve, okay? He's still _cool_. He's still got his whole _life_ ahead of him. 

He doesn't _need_ to be wasting time babysitting obnoxious kids for free.

He doesn't even _like_ them.

Or, okay, _fine_ , maybe he likes Dustin, 'cause they have a special bond, now, and, _sure_ , he doesn't really _know_ Max, but  _they_ kind of have a bond, _too_ , even if it _is_ basically just a shared hatred and fear of Billy, and, well, _okay_ , he likes Mike, even, a little bit, mostly just because he had to spend so much time at his house when he was dating Nancy, and, actually, _Lucas_ was there a lot, _too_ , since he lived right next door, and, alright,  _fine_ , Steve likes _him_ , too, and.

 _Fine_ , Steve  _likes_  these kids, but they  _are_  pathetic losers, and if they could just _not_ be his friends, and just be people who Steve occasionally waves to when he sees them at the grocery store, or whatever, instead, that would be _great_.

 _Really_ , Steve wants  _nothing_  to do with the Party, as they  _insist_  on being called, but what the fuck can he _do_?

They're always knocking on his door and calling his phone and bribing him to drive them places by bringing him off-brand ice cream sandwiches. 

And, hey, come  _on_. 

Steve's not an  _idiot_ , okay? 

He's not gonna give up  _ice cream_  unless he's got a  _way_ better offer. 

 

 

 

 

Steve finishes up with the brownies, eats one to make sure it's okay, puts the rest away, grabs Billy's jacket, so he can just pass it on to one of the boys to pass on to Max to pass on to Billy. 

It's an  _ugly_ fucking jacket. 

Steve doesn't even know where to  _find_ clothes this fucking ugly. 

And it's too big for Steve, definitely, just like  _Billy_ is too big for Steve, just generally, always tripping over him on the basketball court and stalking after him in parking lots that should be  _more_ than big enough for both of them and filling up the doorways in the Byers' house like even that fucking _demogorgon_ couldn't, a huge unrelenting  _monster_ , and.

And Steve tries on Billy's jacket, stands in front of his mirror.  

The jacket reeks of cheap cologne, Marlboro Reds, sweat.  

It makes Steve look small, vulnerable, dumb. 

He looks like a little boy playing dress-up in his daddy's clothes when he's not home. 

He fits his hands into the pockets, leans back, tips his chin up, tries to see if it helps.

It doesn't. 

It  _definitely_ doesn't, but there's something in one of Billy's pockets that might help.

The pocket on the right side is empty.

The pocket on the  _left_  side holds thirty-seven cents in change, a Reese's Cup with a bite taken out of it, a mostly faded receipt for a place called The Pleasure Chest, a flyer for a bake sale at a place called St Monica's Catholic Church with what  _might_ be Billy's handwriting scrawled on the back, reading only,  _sunday: 730 930 1130 115 530 730,_ and an already rolled joint hidden inside of an soft weathered rolled-up five-dollar bill.

Only _one_ of those things is guaranteed to be a good time, but at least it's gonna be a real, real,  _real_  good time.

Because the thing  _is_ , Billy's got  _weed_ , and since the jacket is going to change hands a million times before it gets  _back_ to Billy, there's _no way_ Billy will know it was  _him_ if Steve steals it.

And, anyway,  _whatever_ , what's he  _really_ going to do to Max, even if he thinks it was her? 

Tell their  _parents_? 

No fucking way, right? 

He'd get in  _trouble_. 

So, if Steve steals it from him, it's  _basically_ gonna be a victimless crime. 

So Steve gets fucking _blitzed_ , listens to some Tina Turner, to some Michael Jackson, to some Bruce Springsteen, eats three more brownies, and then he gets in his car to go deal with the kids. 

 

 

 

 

It turns out that Steve is late getting to the movies,  _fine_ , but he’s only late by thirty-seven minutes, which is  _basically_ no minutes at all. 

It's not  _his_  fault that  _Born In The USA_  came on the radio  _twice_ , and he's  _already_ stoned. 

If he had been driving around Hawkins stoned off his ass,  _and_ jamming to Springsteen at the  _same_ fucking time, he almost  _definitely_ would've crashed his car, and then  _died_ , maybe, and then his dad would probably drag him back from the dead to scream at him for embarrassing him by dying in such a dumb way, so. 

Steve  _had_ to pull over a couple times. 

So, yeah,  _fine_ , he's late when he pulls to a stop in front of Dustin, who he is  _actually_ responsible for getting home, and Mike, Lucas, and Max, who he's almost definitely sure he is  _not_ responsible for, at _all_ , in  _any_ way. 

He can't believe  _Mike_ was giving  _him_ shit about  _his_ fucking math skills, because if Mike  _really_ thinks all these kids  _and_  their fucking bikes and goddamn  _skateboards_ are fitting into Steve's car, he's  _delusional_.

Still, he slides his Ray-Bans down a little bit, lowers his windows, sighs, "We’re  _missing_  somebody. Where the  _hell_  is Byers?"

The kids start slurping the last few sips of pop out of their cups, balling up paper cheeseburger wrappers, throwing things into a trash can in front of the theater before coming closer to Steve's car, except for Mike, who just pushes his trash at Lucas, so that he can focus on treating Steve like shit, on crossing his arms over his chest, on sneering, "Jonathan got him  _right_ _after_ the movie.  _Fuck_ , you are  _so bad_  at this job."

Jonathan, Jonathan, _Jonathan_.

Jonathan's _so_ much better than Steve at fucking _everything_ , because Steve is bullshit, and even a bunch of loser kids don't like him, but it doesn't matter, not right now, anyway, because Steve's  _way_  too stoned to  _really_  react to this shit, but some day soon, somebody needs to tell Mike that he  _better_  grow up to be scary and tall and strong as hell, or he's gonna get the shit beaten out of him  _every_  single day of his high school career.

 _Somebody's_  got to tell him, but it's sure as hell not going to be  _Steve_ , because these people aren't his friends, and he doesn't care about them, at  _all_.

"No, he’s  _not_ ," Dustin argues, before Steve can defend himself. Dustin leans into the car, still standing out on the sidewalk, to hand Steve a Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bar. This is new. Dustin's really branching out, bribe-wise. Steve approves of it wholeheartedly. He rips off the wrapper, hands it back out the window to Dustin, so he can throw it away for him. Dustin's cool. Dustin can stay. "Don't be such a  _douchebag_ , Mike, Steve's still  _learning_!"

" _Okay_ ," Mike says, in that slow condescending  _I’m the smartest person in the world_  way that he has. "Fine, he’s still  _learning_ , but you know what  _else_  he’s still learning? D&D, and we  _all_  know how shitty he is at  _that_."

" _Hey_ ," Steve snaps, because  _Jesus_ , what the  _fuck_. "I'm  _trying_ , okay? It’s not  _my_ fault that I’m the only one here who didn’t turn thirteen and think, oh, hey, I should probably avoid,  _whatever_ , going outside and playing sports and  _ever_ losing my virginity."

Max snorts while the boys all just scowl as one, until Mike informs him, snottily, "If you’re trying to make us feel  _bad_ for not being dumb  _sluts_ like  _you_ , it’s  _not_ gonna work."

Steve hasn’t felt this goddamn thrown since the day Dustin got in his car shouting about how they had to go save the world, or his cat, or his lizard, or whatever.

So he's still stoned, except Cyndi Lauper's on the radio, now, and  _that's_ reallystarting to kill his mellow, and Mike is basically just  _begging_ Steve to pull his car out of park and run his annoying ass over, and then suddenly Billy strolls up from out of nowhere, smoking a cigarette and wearing the clothes he left Steve's place in, earlier, and a dumb as hell denim jacket, like maybe he's got a  _million_ dumb ugly jackets at home, like maybe he thinks that's  _normal_ , like maybe it would fucking  _kill_  him to just dress like everybody else, or something, and he's asking Mike, "Hold up,  _who's_ a dumb slut?" 

"Our  _babysitter_ ," Mike says, rolling his eyes. 

Billy leans down to look through Steve's passenger side window, lifts his hand to his mouth to drag at his cigarette, makes eye contact with Steve, looking vaguely amused, but. 

Billy  _always_ looks vaguely amused. 

Hungry, bored, amused.

The holy trinity of _fucking_ psychopathy.

Steve's hit by a sudden, and totally unwanted unneeded  _heart-stopping_ , reminder of that night outside the Byers' house, remembers stepping outside to the sight of Billy’s face fucking _lighting up_ , his voice slow and delighted and  _fucking_  terrifying,  _am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?_

It's a hard memory to shake out of, but when he does, gets out of his car, walks over to join them on the sidewalk, the boys are still  _clearly_  talking shit about him, because Lucas is saying, now, agreeably, "Yeah, Dustin, admit it, come on, even  _Max_  is better than Steve."

" _Even Max_? What the hell does  _that_  mean?" Max demands, glaring, and  _that's_  going to be a whole thing, Steve can  _tell_ , so he gnaws at an edge of his ice cream, takes a few steps away to let the kids work it out by themselves. 

Billy follows his example, leans back against Steve's car, raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you seven years old?"

"I'm _eighteen_ ," Steve protests, scowling.

"Okay. I just feel like you're eating ice cream that's marketed to little girls."

"You're just jealous, Hargrove."

" _Jealous_?" Billy repeats, licks his lips, gives Steve a mildly puzzled sort of a smile. "I'm _jealous_ that a kid got you some ice cream, and not me?"

"Exactly."

"That's not _fair_!" Dustin shouts, suddenly. Steve glances over his shoulder, eyes Dustin moving to stand between Lucas and Max, finishing, "You guys need to stop being _assholes_!" 

There's a beat of silence, and then Max says, "Oh, _screw you_ , Dustin, what happened to you  _not_ taking sides?!"

Dustin wails, "I'm _not_!"

And just like that, _all_ the kids start up again, twice as loud and _twice_ as worked up. 

Steve sighs.

Billy wonders, "So, what, is this a hot Saturday night for you, Harrington? For  _real_?" 

"Hey, _welcome_ to Hawkins, Indiana. I'm not really blessed with a lot of _choices_ around here." 

"Yeah, but you're the _King_ , aren't you?  _King Steve_." 

" _You're_ the king," Steve tells him, before he licks a stripe up the side of the ice cream where it's starting to drip down his wrist.

A car shoots by, blaring that old song that was _always_ on the fucking radio back when Steve was sixteen, that one that goes _I got your number, I need to make you mine_ , and.

And when the car's _gone_ , Steve realizes that he's _bored_.

There's no music playing, and he almost just let himself get _bullied_ by a fucking _baby_ , and he doesn't even actually  _like_  strawberry ice cream.

And _Billy's_ here, because Steve _really_ needed that, he  _needed_  Billy to show up here, and be a dick, and freak him out just like he  _always_  fucking does.

_Plant your feet, Harrington._

_Buenos dias, Harrington._

_Don't act like it's weird when I harass you in the shower, Harrington._

Maybe the weed's wearing off.

Steve's still got some left, but he can't smoke it in front of the kids.

He's won most of the kids over, kind of, a little, but most of their parents still think he's a bad influence.

He doesn't do that great in school, Barbara died at his house, he took Nancy's virginity, he smokes cigarettes, he took Dustin out monster-hunting without,  _whatever_ , fucking getting _permission_ from his mom, or Hopper, or fucking  _somebody_ , like that was ever even an  _option_ , like Dustin didn't just  _bulldoze_  right over him.

Dustin bulldozes over _everybody_ , Hopper _included_ , and Hopper is _huge_ , he's basically a fucking _giant_ , so Steve doesn't really see how his 5'11 ass was supposed to be able to rise above Dustin Henderson's _extreme_ levels of bullying, but whatever. 

Hopper would arrest him in a _heartbeat_ , tonight, just out of boredom, and maybe some spite, and without _any_ proof, probably, and so the _last_ thing Steve needs is for Mike or Lucas or _any_ of these kids, actually, to catch him getting high. 

He glances back at Billy. "You've won a  _very_ boring throne. As your predecessor, I hope you rule your kingdom fairly, and...you know, whatever. Dungeons and Dragons kind of shit, I guess, I don't know." 

Billy's not really looking at Steve.

Or, he _is_ , but his eyes are focused in on Steve's hand, where he's holding onto his ice cream, which is weird, but Billy's _always_ being weird, and.

 _Shit_.

Steve has to rush it, to lift his wrist to his mouth to suck goopy cold pink ice cream into his mouth before it starts making a _real_ mess, and when he's done dealing with _that_ , he decides he's putting in a _lot_ of effort here for _very_ little reward, and just throws the rest of the ice cream onto the street. 

Mike, apparently getting bored with Max and Lucas and Dustin, turns his head to the side, looks down at the ice cream, looks back up at Steve, asks, "What is  _wrong_  with you? There's a trash can  _right there_." 

Steve is going to  _kill_  Mike Wheeler. 

He's about to open his mouth to fucking  _say_  so, but then Billy drawls, low raspy California cool, "Yeah, _motherfucker_ , but  _he's_  over  _here_ , so. You can _see_ how there's a _problem_." Mike rolls his eyes, but turns back to the other kids, and Billy lets out a laugh, quick and soft and dark, says, "You're _welcome_." 

Steve's  _beyond_ shocked.

"You want me to _thank_ _you_?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

"For _what_ , for _rescuing_ me from a _thirteen-year-old_?" 

" _Yeah_ , asshole." 

Steve starts going through his pockets for his keys, because it's _clearly_ time to get this show on the fucking road, already, if he's got _Billy_ , of _all_ fucking people, hanging around him trying to _do good deeds_.

"I don't need _you_ defending me from _anybody_ , but _especially_ not Mike fucking Wheeler, okay?" 

"Okay," hums Billy.

And Steve looks up, just in time to realize that Billy's standing a  _hell_  of a lot closer to him than he was before.

" _Hi_ ," says Steve.

"Hi."

"Okay, _what_ are you doing?"

Billy shrugs, smiles, murmurs, "I don't know.  _You_  tell  _me_."

It doesn't seem like a joke.

What it  _seems_ like, actually, is Billy's planning on just _standing_ there, too big too close too intimidating, waiting for Steve to _answer_ _him_ , or something, but Steve _can't_ , because he doesn't really know what the _fuck_ is going on.

But, then, Steve doesn't have to.

He doesn't _have_ to, because it turns out that Lucas  _still_  doesn't know how to talk to girls, not even a _little_ bit, so Max is screaming, "I want to go  _home_ , Billy!" 

Billy says, to her, still standing too close, still just  _staring_  at Steve, "Am I fucking  _busy_ , Maxine? Do you  _see_ me talking to somebody that's  _obviously_ not  _you_?" 

"You are  _such_ a  _dick_ , the whole reason you're  _here_ —"

"Shut  _up_ , Max, or I fucking  _swear_."

 _I fucking swear_  probably shouldn't be _that_  much of a threat, but it clearly  _is_ , because Max storms off, heads over to where Billy's Camaro is parked across the street, taking up not one, but in fact,  _two_  parking spaces, like just in case anybody somehow _forgot_ that Billy was an asshole, he just wanted to casually _remind_ them, or something.

Steve takes a few steps closer to the remnants of the Party, shoots a mocking smile Billy's way, tells him, "You are  _so_  good with kids, Hargrove; anybody ever tell you that?" 

Billy just puts his hands in his pockets, walks a few steps away, stops. 

When Billy wanders back over, he reaches out, rests a hand on Steve's arm, squeezes. 

"That's my jacket, huh?" 

And, okay,  _shit_ , yeah, it  _is_ , because Steve is fucking  _stoned_ , and he fucking  _forgot_  he was  _wearing_  it, so he flushes, starts to slip out of the jacket, whatever, he doesn't  _care_ , the thing is ugly,  _anyway_ , but Billy just shakes his head, starts walking backwards away from Steve, grins, "Nah, wear it. It's cold as shit out here.  _Fucking_ Indiana, man."  

 

 

 

 

Steve gets Lucas and Mike home first, even though it _actually_ would make more sense to get _Dustin_ home first, because Dustin's place is more out of the way, but. 

He'd rather spend a little more time with Dustin, who almost _definitely_ likes him, than with Lucas and Mike, who _basically_ just tolerate him because he's got a car and a license to drive, so. 

"So, what were you talking about with  _Billy Hargrove_?" Dustin asks,  _really_  pushing on the name  _Billy Hargrove_ , like he's _actually_ talking about the fucking  _Devil_ , or some weird Dungeons and Dragons villain, or one of the bad guys from  _The Lord of the Rings_ , or something. 

"Nothing, really, I don't know. He was just giving me a hard time."

"What for?" 

"For hanging out with  _you_  all the time, you  _loser_." 

Dustin glares. "You  _love_  hanging out with me. I'm your  _coolest_  friend." 

"I think you're trying to say that you're my  _only_  friend, and that is _not_ the same thing." 

"No, but, look, _Steve_ , what did he _want_?"

"He left a jacket at my house, and—"

"Why was _Billy Hargrove_ at your _house_?!"

"I don't know, we just. You fuckers _stole my car_ , so he drove me home, and then we kind of. I don't know, had. A sleepover, or something." Dustin's eyes are wide, his mouth has dropped open, he looks ready to remind Steve, in his _loudest_ possible voice, about how Billy is a _psycho_ , but Steve _already knows that_ , so he pulls into Dustin's driveway, snaps, "Leave me _alone_ , already. Tell your mom I said hi." 

" _Or_ , you could come  _in_ , and then _you_ could just say hi?"

"Yeah, and get stuck making awkward small talk and eating a  _million_  chocolate chip cookies for  _three hours_ , again? No, thanks." 

"They're  _peanut butter_  cookies this time," Dustin says, like that's going to make all the difference. 

The _only_ reason Steve knows for a  _fact_  that Dustin can't read minds, is because if Dustin  _could_ , he'd  _never_  fucking shut up about it. 

Reluctantly, Steve admits, "I  _love_  peanut butter cookies." 

Dustin smiles at him with all of his dumb new baby teeth. "So, come  _in_ , Steve,  _Jesus_."

 

 

 

 

Dustin's mother is actually asleep when they walk in, and that's great, because it means that Steve can just grab a cookie and leave, but then Dustin bullies him into  _taking a look at his record collection_ , which can't  _possibly_  be a real thing he's ever done before.

That's  _got_  to be something he's overheard some dumb older guy saying when he was talking about trying to impress somebody, right?

Not that Dustin seems to know a lot of older guys, except Steve, so.

 _God_.

It was probably Jonathan _fucking_ Byers, screwing Steve  _yet again_ , because it's ten o'clock on a Saturday night, and here's Steve, standing in Dustin's living room, eating peanut butter cookies and pretending to be interested in albums that Dustin's probably _never even listened to_.

Does he  _really_  think Steve's going to believe Marvin Gaye's  _Let's Get It On_  belongs to him?

Steve's obviously not _that_ smart, okay,  _obviously_ , but.

Just _how_ fucking stupid does Dustin think Steve  _is_?

Right when Steve thinks he _can't_ take it anymore, when Dustin is showing him not just  _one_  copy, but  _two_ , of the latest Michael Jackson album, which is  _good_ , actually, Steve really likes it, but he just can't understand why anybody would ever need  _two_  of it, is when Dustin suddenly goes, "Hey, do you want to sleep over today?" 

And it hits him, again.

A memory,  _the_  memory, Billy, in the dark, not _obviously_ fast and hungry and desperate like anything in the Upside Down, just patient and slow and  _cheerful_ , a monster that doesn't  _have_  to sniff out your blood, doesn't  _have_  to chase you, because it  _knows_  it's going to fucking get you. 

 _This whole situation, Harrington, I don't know. It's giving me the heebie jeebies_.

Steve tries, feeling boxed-in and overheated and fucking  _exhausted_ , "Um. I don't know. I think that might be weird." 

"What,  _why_? I have sleepovers with the guys  _all the time_ , Steve," Dustin sighs. " _You're_ in the Party, now,  _too_ , you know. You  _really_  need to start making an effort, or we _might_ have to vote you out." 

"I wasn't aware that I had been voted  _in_ , Dustin." 

"Well, we did it when you weren't there."

"Of _course_ you did."

"And, I mean, _honestly_? It was a _close_ call," Dustin admits. "Mike wasn't that excited, but Eleven talked him into it. She says you're cool." 

"She...doesn't know me, though?"

"No, but _Max_ told her you were cool, and _they're_ kind of friends now, in a weird scary girl way, so Mike just had to go with it, 'cause he and El are, whatever. Married now, or something. Nobody _really_ knows what they're doing. Not even Mike." 

Steve nods. "Relationships are rough when you're thirteen." 

Dustin smiles in a way that is _way_ too patronizing to be coming from a kid who once picked up some interdimensional trash, took it home, fed it chocolate and then pretended like it made _no_ fucking sense that it was suddenly _huge_ and eating his beloved childhood pet. 

" _Yeah_ , Steve. Because  _you_  have _no_ relationship problems,  _ever_." 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, glares, spits, "I'm _sorry_ , were you  _not_  just trying to manipulate me into sleeping over here, tonight, 'cause I can just  _go_ , if you—"

" _No_ , come _on_ , Steve, I _want_ you to _stay_! The couch is  _super_  comfy, _and_! You can have my Spock blanket!" 

It's sad, because Dustin looks like Steve should be psyched, _super_ amped about this fucking blanket, and.

That's _sad_ , because Steve can only say, "Your  _what_?" 

"You don't like  _Star Trek_?" 

Steve gives him the blankest stare he can manage. 

" _Steve_ , there was a new _Star Trek_ movie  _this summer_!"

Steve takes the last bite of the last peanut butter cookie and wishes he was still stoned. 

Steve doesn't know Dustin's mom too well, but she seems pretty cool. 

As in, if he gets high anywhere _near_ her house, she'll probably recognize the smell for what it is, so it's not like he can just wait for Dustin to fall asleep, and then go out into the backyard to get wrecked. 

"You  _really_  didn't watch it? I thought you  _liked_  movies."  

He's not _really_ sorry, but Steve still shrugs apologetically. 

Dustin looks like he's never  _been_  more offended. "You can still use the blanket, but I'm  _really_  disappointed in you." 

"Oh, thanks, man. That's really big of you." 

"Are you being _sarcastic_ , Steve?" Dustin asks, raising one eyebrow, tilting his chin up, _glaring_. "I mean, _I_ thought we were _friends_ , and you're gonna have a sleepover with _Billy Hargrove_ , but not with _me_?!"

"Jesus, fine, _okay_ , don't _yell_ , just. Go get me the goddamn blanket, _fuck_."  

 

 

 

 

Steve can't sleep until just after seven, when the sun's slowly starting to filter through the clouds outside.

He wakes up to Dustin watching an episode of  _The New Scooby-Doo Mysteries_ , with the sound turned down so low it's almost on mute, with his face pressed up close to the screen. 

"Isn't that only on on Saturday?" 

"I taped it," Dustin says, turning the volume up a little bit now that he knows Steve's awake. "My mom said to say hi, and that she had to go to knitting club." 

 _Knitting club_ sounds like the _fakest_ thing anybody's ever had to go out and do on a Sunday morning, and, eventually, Dustin's mom's  _really_  got to just bite the bullet and tell Dustin that she's got a new boyfriend, or what _ever_ it is she's got going on, but Steve doesn't really  _care_ , so he just replies, "Sure, okay." 

"She left some money for us to go get breakfast, if you want? I mean, if you have other plans, I guess that's fine, but—" 

"What time is it?" 

"Almost nine." 

What kind of fucking freak  _is_  Dustin, anyway?

Who the fuck wakes up at  _nine_  for _no reason_?

"Can I sleep a little more, first?" 

"Yeah, sure," Dustin shrugs, looking back at the TV. "I got Pop-Tarts, till you're ready." 

"What kind?"

"Frosted Raspberry and Dutch Apple. But, listen, Steve, I  _really_   _like_  the apple kind, and I'm  _almost_  out—"

"Raspberry is the  _shit_ ," Steve interrupts him, because he's not going to listen to Dustin talking about how the _grossest_ kind of Pop-Tarts are the _best_. He's  _not_. He's fucking _exhausted_ , he can't _take_ that kind of thing, right now, and it's actually kind of a _miracle_ that Dustin believes Steve's the kind of person who could _ever_ take something like that, at _all_. Either Dustin's  _actually_  insane, or Steve just seems  _way_  more likeable than he really is. "Gimme one. Wait, no. Gimme  _two_  of those." 

Dustin beams, scrambles up and off the floor, heads into the kitchen. "Coming right up!" 

Steve glances at the TV. 

He's never seen this episode before, but this show is for babies, so it's easy enough to catch up with.

He's pretty sure Scooby and the gang are trying to hunt down a ghost. 

It's never  _really_  a ghost, though.

It's always just some creepy old man hiding under a bedsheet. 

So, not to be a dick, or anything, but those motherfuckers have it  _so_  easy.

Their biggest problem is just that they have to take that huge dumb dog with them, everywhere, right? 

Steve would fucking  _love_  to deal with fake ghosts all the time.

Even if it meant he had to get a dog, he'd get one, in a fucking  _heartbeat_ , if it meant he wouldn't have to keep dealing with  _actual real-life monsters_ , and college admissions essays, and Billy  _fucking_  Hargrove. 

He pulls his blanket over his face and shuts his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

Steve's  _almost_  asleep again, as in, he's  _so_   _close_  he can  _taste_  it, and then the dumb Spock blanket is pulled down from his face, as Dustin whispers, "Steve.  _Steve_!" 

" _When_  are you just gonna fucking  _kill_  me, already?"

"What?"

" _Nothing_ ," Steve groans, not bothering to try sitting up. He  _just_  sat up, and what the hell did he get?  _Nothing_ , except  _Scooby Doo_  on TV, and a vague promise of Pop-Tarts, and Dustin annoying the shit out of him, and he just wants to fucking  _sleep_. "God,  _what_?"  

"I made mine first, 'cause I wasn't sure, so do you want your Pop-Tarts hot or room temperature?"

"I  _obviously_  want room temperature Pop-Tarts, Dustin.  _Jesus_ , don't  _fuck_  with me. Do I _look_ like I want to burn my mouth up just for some fake raspberry _slime_?"

When he realizes Steve's _actually_ waiting for him to answer, Dustin tries, "No?"

Steve agrees, " _No_." 

Dustin gives him another one of those big smiles before he gently tugs the blanket back over Steve's face and runs off again. 

 

 

 

 

It's almost noon when they get into the BMW.

Dustin's spent the past fourteen minutes trying to con Steve into agreeing to take him to this restaurant two towns over that allegedly serves  _really_   _good_  chocolate chip pancakes.

Steve _loves_ pancakes, okay?

He loves chocolate chips, he loves pancakes, and he loves both of them mixed together, but right now, he's working off a little less than two hours of sleep and two and a half Pop-Tarts, so he's probably gonna crash out in twenty minutes,  _tops_.

They're not going  _anywhere_  outside Hawkins, because if Steve tries to pull that off, he'll probably just kill them both.

He honestly doesn't even know why he keeps getting in his goddamn car. 

Driving just gets more and more dangerous by the fucking  _day_. 

Dustin offers, "Okay, compromise! _What if_ we go to that diner that's by Max's house? Me and her and Lucas went, the other day, and the sandwiches are  _so good_ , Steve, you're gonna  _die_ , that's how  _good_ —"

And Steve's half-asleep, so he just sighs, "Dustin,  _whatever_ , I  _don't_  care." 

" _Really_?!" 

"Yeah, fine. Do they do milkshakes?" 

" _Everywhere_  does milkshakes, Steve. Milkshakes aren't _hard work_ , Steve, it's _ice cream_ mixed with _milk_ , you _know_ that, _right_? It's _basic_ science, _anybody_ could make one," Dustin sighs, rolling his eyes, leaning forward to mess around with the radio. "Hey, we don't have to listen to Springsteen again, do we?" 

"You know what, Dustin? I  _almost_  forgot I had  _Born In The USA_  on tape. If you hadn't said anything—" 

Dustin knocks his head back against his seat, groans, "Oh, are you fucking  _shitting_  me, right now, Steve?!" 

"I don't joke around about Springsteen, motherfucker." Steve turns off Dustin's street, yawns, "Alright, where's this fucking diner at?" 

"You _don't know_ where  _Max_  lives?" 

" _Why_  would I know that?" 

"She's _in the Party_!"

"She's a  _thirteen-year-old girl_  who I've met a grand total of  _four times_ , I'm not  _supposed_  to know where she lives, okay?  _Jesus_ , I shouldn't even know where  _you_  live." 

"Okay,  _whatever_ , oh my  _God_ , look, just keep going straight. It's gonna be close to Old Cherry Road, but you know that strip mall right before that? You turn left, there." 

" _No_ , I  _don't_  know," says Steve, who has driven past Old Cherry Road maybe  _twice_ in his _entire life_. "I have  _no_  fucking idea what you're talking about, you'd have better luck talking to me about the fucking hole in the ground that that fucking  _goblin_  you like lives in, 'cause—"

" _Excuse_  me? What are you. I don't. Wait.  _The_   _Hobbit_?!" Dustin demands, voice _very_ quickly rising into a shriek. "Are you talking about  _The Hobbit_?! Okay, explain it to me, how you get to be _eighteen years old_ , and you  _don't_  know about  _The Hobbit_ , because _Steve_ , I _can't_ —"

"I basically  _just_  quoted it to you, are you  _kidding_  me?" Steve demands, even though, okay, really? _No_ , he  _hasn't_  read _The Hobbit_ , but Steve's pretty confident in the fact that he's  _never_  going to read _The Hobbit_. Honestly, Steve doesn't even know  _how_  he knows that that's how the book starts, but he definitely  _does_  know it, so. "Isn't that the  _first_  fucking line, the guy lives in a hole in the ground—"

" _The guy_?! The fucking  _guy_ , Steve?! He's a  _hobbit_ , that's the  _entire_. I. You.  _Ugh_! Jesus, I can't  _do_  this!" Dustin exclaims, viciously turning at the radio controls until the volume's up as high as it'll go, and Bruce Springsteen's howling,  _born down in a dead man's town, the first kick I took was when I hit the ground_ , and then Dustin raises his voice  _even higher than that_. "You are  _ridiculous_ , do you  _know_  that?! You have  _super_  low standards in life!" 

The speed limit in Dustin's neighborhood is 30 MPH, but it's Sunday, and even _Hopper_ wouldn't have the heart to arrest Steve _right_ in front of Dustin on a _Sunday morning_ , so Steve pushes the car to 45, 50, 55, settles in at 60, cruises right past a stop sign and decides to shoot straight through the K-Mart parking lot, since it's a great chance to show off, and the parking lot is mostly empty, _anyway_. 

When they're about to hit Main Street, Steve drops it back down to 45, still pushing it, _sure_ , but slow enough that it feels pretty safe to turn his head to the side, to grin at Dustin, raise his eyebrows behind his Ray-Bans, and Dustin just  _laughs_ , sounding fucking  _psyched_ , like maybe speeding around Hawkins listening to Springsteen is the single coolest thing he's ever done. 

The poor sheltered little bastard. 

 

 

 

 

"Are you going to this school thing?" Billy asks, shoving his way into Steve's booth at the diner. 

This is new.

Every time they've run into each other like this, they've sat on opposite sides, and. 

Well, Dustin's on Steve's other side, today. 

Maybe it makes sense. 

Maybe Steve should be  _grateful_ , or something, that Billy's not going out of his way to intimidate Dustin. 

Maybe. 

He's still tired as hell. 

He can barely fucking _think_. 

He sips his milkshake, because he's still hungry and exhausted and, also, he has  _never_  had less of an interest in talking to Billy than he does right now,  _not even_  in any given post-basketball shower scenario, then yawns, " _What_ school thing?" 

Billy makes an annoyed face, but not even at Steve, at  _Dustin_ , says, "Good thing he's pretty, am I right?" 

Dustin, who co-opted Steve's Ray-Bans when they were getting out of the car and has refused to give them back, thus far, lets them slide down his nose, before he blinks, looking confused.

Billy lets out a laugh, turns back to Steve. "Max had to go dress shopping, and came home _screaming_ , so apparently _that_ went _real_ fucking bad, but I asked Susan  _why_ , and she said there was some school thing."

" _Oh_!" Steve  _hates_  talking to Billy, wishes he could be  _anywhere_  but here, he'd rather be back in the fucking  _Upside Down_ , right now, than stuck on a tiny diner bench with Billy pressed up against his side and taking up too much room and breathing and talking and fucking _existing_ right in Steve's  _space_ , but  _Dustin_ has no such issue, apparently, because he answers Billy, immediately, "You're talking about The Snow Ball! It's tonight." 

"The  _what_ , now?" 

"The  _Snow Ball_ ," Steve repeats, around a sigh. "It's just a  _dance_ , for little kids, I mean, it's  _not_ a big deal."

"I'm  _not_ a little kid, and it's actually a  _huge_ deal," Dustin corrects him, irritably. 

Steve rolls his eyes. 

A waitress comes by to set down another cup of hot chocolate in front of Dustin, then she rests her hands on her hips, smiles at Billy, asks, "Can I get you something, honey?" 

And, okay, what the  _fuck_?

Is Steve living in an episode of  _The Twilight Zone_ , or something? 

How the  _fuck_ has he found himself in a world where people go around calling  _obviously_ deranged maniacs like  _Billy Hargrove_  things like  _honey_? 

"I'd take some cherry pie, if you got it."

"Cherry pie it is," she says, winking, walking away. 

Billy turns his head to watch her go.

"She's too  _old_ for you, Hargrove." 

"Go big or go home, Harrington. There's  _no_  such thing as  _too old_ ," Billy tells him as he reaches out to steal the maraschino cherry off the top of Steve's milkshake, bites it, then drops the stem on the table, _grinning_ , like he's waiting for Steve to start shouting about _cooties_ , or something. 

Steve's not five years old, though, and he doesn't even  _like_  maraschino cherries, so he just tries to pretend he didn't notice. 

Across the table, Dustin perks up a little bit, asks, "Wait, is that true?" 

Steve sighs. 

"Steve, is it  _true_?!"

Billy shoots an amused grin Steve's way, then looks at Dustin, like, "What's up, man? You got your eye on an older lady?" 

" _Kill_ me," Steve groans. 

"My friend has this sister," Dustin starts, and then stops. His face starts looking guilty, like maybe he  _murdered_ somebody, or something, and _isn't_ just talking about his innocent almost-adorable baby crush on Nancy, the one that Steve  _already knows about_. "Um. But it's. Not a big deal." 

Billy says, _almost_ gently, "I  _don't_ really care either way." 

"Oh." 

"So?" Billy turns back to Steve. "You're going to the thing?" 

Steve admits, "I'm driving  _Dustin_ over there,  _yeah_ , but I'm not going  _in_ , or anything."

"You're  _babysitting_ ," Billy laughs. "In the interest of you and me being open and honest with each other—"

"In _what_ fucking world do I _ever_ wanna be _open and honest_ with _you_? Are you _insane_?"

Billy makes this dismissive, bored, _shut up I'm obviously not listening to you anyway_ kind of wave with his hand, continues, "Be  _real_ with me. You're saying you're babysitting, _right_ , Harrington?" 

"Steve's not my  _babysitter_ ," Dustin scowls. "He's my  _friend_. Who...has a car. And is gonna help me with—"

" _Shut up_ ," Steve cuts him off, panicking. If _Billy_ finds out about Steve's  _hair care routine_ , he's going to have  _no choice_  but to go straight home and fucking  _drown_  himself in his pool. Well, it's December, so the pool's actually empty, but he could fill it up if it was just for drowning in, like. Why  _not_. " _How_ many times have I told you not to  _tell_ anybody about—"

"I wasn't going to  _tell_ him; I just—"

"It's a  _secret_ , Dustin,  _Christ_." 

" _Jesus_ , look, as I  _said_ , I still don't  _care_ , but this is starting to sound  _real_ weird, like. Your priest asking you to hang back after Sunday school weird, so I think I gotta bounce," Billy decides, standing up. 

"You _ordered pie_ ," Dustin reminds him, looking annoyed. "You know nobody's gonna  _eat_ it after they put it on a  _plate_ for you, right? They just have to  _throw it away_." 

Billy looks annoyed again, when he digs around in his wallet, tosses two dollars onto the table. " _Harrington'll_ eat the fucking pie, okay, kid? Chill out."

"You don't even  _know_ Steve. You don't know if he  _likes_ cherry pie." 

"He's a fucking red-blooded American, _that's_ what I fucking  _know_ ," Billy spits. "So he fucking  _loves_ cherry pie; it's  _practically_  a fucking  _law_. And, hey,  _keep on_ talking to me like that, Dustin, and I'm gonna knock your fucking  _teeth_ out, you  _feel_ me?" 

When the diner's door shuts behind Billy, when the waitress has brought over a slice of cherry pie that Steve's not all that excited about, but that he starts eating, anyway, when it's been a few minutes, Dustin whispers, sounding almost  _impossibly_ terrified, " _How_  does he know my  _name_." 

"You've literally talked to him  _five_ times in the past two days,  _alone_ , are you  _kidding_ me?" 

"I'm  _forgettable_! I'm  _thirteen_ ,and  _tiny_ ," Dustin hisses. " _Plus_ , I'm in the  _AV Club_! And I'm  _always_ at the  _arcade_! Haven't you  _ever_ seen a movie,  _ever_ , Steve?! I'm  _basically_ invisible!" 

"Dustin, you are,  _hands down_ , the  _single_ loudest person I know,  _and_ you're 5'6 and  _still_ growing. And Hargrove's at the arcade  _all the time_." 

"Yeah, but he  _stays_   _outside_!" 

" _Dustin_ ," Steve sighs. " _Look_ , you've been flirting with that guy's little sister since they got to  _town_ , so  _yeah_ , he knows who you fucking  _are_. That's how that kind of thing  _works_. Make peace with it and just  _move on_ , okay?"

"He's gonna  _kill_ me, Steve!" 

"I think that's  _really_ unlikely, man." Steve eyes Dustin speculatively, decides this is a situation where a sort-of lie is probably going to be _way_ more comforting than the truth. "Look, I think maybe you think Billy's a  _lot_ scarier than he _really_ is, like. You know, I think he just smokes, and wears weird clothes, and smiles too much, and  _that_ definitely creeps people out, and. I don't know, he just hangs around his house and lifts weights, a lot, I guess, 'cause he doesn't touch the ones we got at school.  _You_ ever think about lifting weights?" 

"Um," says Dustin. He bites his lip, looks  _almost_ hopeful. "How heavy do you think my copy of  _The Hobbit_  is?" 

Steve sighs. "I don't know _why_ we have to do this  _again_ , but I would genuinely have  _no_ fucking idea, Dustin. Do I  _look_ like I've  _ever_  even been in the same _room_ as a copy of  _The Hobbit_  in my _whole fucking_   _life_?" 

"No," says Dustin, after a long beat of silence. "You definitely  _don't_." 

It sounds like an insult. 

Steve can't fucking  _believe_ this shit, anymore. 

 

 

 

 

Steve drives home to shower, put on clean clothes, grab his hair products. 

When he gets downstairs, Dustin's eating flan straight out of the pan of it that Mom left in the fridge before she and Dad left last week, and realistically, Steve was never gonna eat it, anyway, so it's kind of great that Dustin's going for it, because he was gonna feel like an asshole if he threw it away, but it's also _weird_.

Didn't he  _just_  eat?

How's he hungry again,  _already_?

Should  _Steve_  be hungry?

He doesn't  _feel_  hungry; he just wants to sleep.

Maybe he's getting the flu, or something.

Dustin says, out of nowhere, "Billy said Max had a hard time getting a dress."

Steve stops looking around for a bag, turns to look at Dustin, blinks. " _Yeah_ , but what the fuck does _Billy_ know? He wears _jean jackets_ , okay? _With_ his jeans, like he thinks it's _not_ dumb. _And_ he has an earring, but only _one_? And, I mean, have you _ever_ taken a good look at his _hair_? He's a _big_ mess, my friend, I am _telling_ you." 

" _Yeah_ ," Dustin snorts. "But. Max is _Max_ , so she's gonna look good no matter _what_ , and I _know_ what Mike's wearing, _and_ Lucas, _and_ Will, but _I'm_ —"

"You're gonna look good, _too_. You showed me the outfit, remember?" 

"I know, but—"

"Look, Dustin, if girls _didn't_ go crazy about sharp-dressed men, ZZ Top _wouldn't've_  wrote a whole song about it. You know that song?"

"Yeah?"

"And it's _good_ , right?" 

" _Yeah_."

"So,  _chill_. And _stop_ eating _all_ my fucking flan." 

"Is _that_ what this is? Flan? What does _flan_ even _mean_?"   

"I don't fucking _know_ , okay, it's Spanish, or something. _Look_ , don't come into _my_ house and start judging _my_ fucking food, okay? Why the hell are you even  _eating_ it if you _don't_ know what it _is_? What if you're _allergic_ , or something?" 

Dustin sneers, "Allergies aren't _real_ , Steve. They're just _lies_ your mom says so you won't eat too much sugar." 

That doesn't _sound_ right, but it _could_ actually be true.

Steve has no idea.

He knows _nothing_ about science.

He remembers, though, suddenly, that time Mom and Dad didn't go anywhere for a whole semester, and he opens up the pantry to grab a brown paper bag.

There's a _lot_ of them, because Mom bought them when she decided to make Steve lunches to take to school, every day, but then she gave up after the first week and a half.

It was _still_ more of an effort than he was really expecting from her. 

He says, "Okay, there's _no way_ that's a real thing, but it's getting late, so we gotta go, okay? Come on." 

 

 

 

 

Steve needs to sleep, and he _knows_ it, because everything's starting to feel hazy, like the one time he and Tommy popped some Valium during an assembly in sophomore year, and couldn't quit smiling and yawning and falling off the bleachers every three minutes. 

It's like that, but Steve's _sober_ , and _still_ driving his fucking car.

He's _such_ a fucking idiot.

He gets Dustin home just before two-thirty, hands him the bag with the bottles in it, gives him _strict_ instructions on shampooing, conditioning _twice_ , then getting dressed, putting a towel around his neck so he doesn't drip on his clothes, and then using the hairspray, but _only_ four times, or he'll  _fucking_  ruin it, and this _whole thing_ will have been a  _big_  waste of time for  _everybody_. 

Dustin says _okay_ , and _Jesus, relax, it's just hair_ , and _no, okay, no, I'm sorry, I'll do it like you said, Jesus, don't be late, though, okay, Steve? This is really important._

Steve rolls his eyes, waves at Dustin's mom from his car, and.

And where the hell is he supposed to go,  _now_?

 

 

 

 

He goes home, tears apart his room looking for the list that Will's mom handed him the one time he went over there to watch the kids play Dungeons and Dragons while she went out on a date. 

Well, she went out with _Hopper_ , but it was _pretty obviously_ a date, because _everybody_ in Hawkins over the age of sixteen is getting some, these days, apparently, _except_ for Steve. 

The list has names, names, names, numbers, numbers, numbers, and all the way at the bottom, like an afterthought, in a different color of ink, he reads the name, _MAX MAYFIELD_ , reads _parents are susan & neil_, reads  _sometimes gets picked up by a brother called billy (loud, drives a blue chevy)_

Then, there's a phone number, and an address, too, for a place out on Old Cherry Road, so Steve copies that down, puts it in his pocket, and picks up his keys, again. 

 

 

 

 

The door's been held open for almost two entire minutes when Steve gives in and says, finally, " _Listen_ , I don't know what you thought you were doing, but I don't need you buying me  _pie_ , okay?"

Billy breaks their stare-off, snorts, rolls his eyes. "Was it  _you_ who was giving me shit the other day 'cause I wouldn't buy you a milkshake? I  _feel_  like it was you.  _Pretty_  sure I went home and wrote down the name _King Steve_ in my diary, I don't know. If you want to give me a sec, I can go  _double check_  that for you—"

"In  _what_ fucking universe am I supposed to believe that  _you_  have a diary?" 

"I don't know," shrugs Billy, looking amused, again. " _This_ one, I guess. How many universes  _are_ there?"

"At _least_ this one," Steve snaps, because again, he knows jack fucking _shit_ about science. " _Maybe_ more."

"Oh, _sure_ ," Billy smirks. Somewhere in the house, water stops running, a door opens, closes, and then Billy's  _not_ amused, not anymore, because he's stepping away from the door, just a little bit, screaming, " _Maxine_! Somebody's been knocking on the  _goddamn_  door for  _ten fucking minutes_!"

Max shouts back, "I'm in the  _shower_!"

"You're obviously fucking  _not_ , Maxine, are you fucking  _kidding_ me with this shit?!" 

Steve's never overheard a dumber pissing contest in his  _entire_ fucking life. 

He reminds Billy, tiredly, "It's  _me_ , at the door." 

" _Yep_ ," Billy says, eyes still narrowed, glaring down an empty hallway. 

Steve tilts up on his toes, sees that there's a closed door, there.

Max is probably in there. 

And it's  _sick_ , how focused Billy is, just _waiting_ for her to come out, when it's obvious that _all_ he wants is to yell at her. 

Steve doesn't have siblings, doesn't even see his parents that much, so he's not _too_ sure what families are really like, but.

 _That_ can't be normal.

It _can't_.  

He thinks about hungry demodogs crowding him, he thinks about Jonathan fucking Byers hitting him in the face, he thinks about Billy knocking him to the floor and  _laughing_ , and he feels. 

 _Sick_. 

He might throw up.   
  
He's only met Max four times. 

They're  _not_  friends. 

He's not really friends with _any_ of those kids, but he's _especially_ not friends with _Max_ , but the _boys_ are, so.

So they  _know_.

About this.

About  _Billy_. 

 _Right_?

Because Max said, trembling, terrified, eyes blown wide,  _it's my brother, he can't know I'm here, he'll kill me._

Steve didn't think that was something to worry about. 

He thought she was being a little bit dramatic, because, _yeah_ , Billy was a jackass, but he wasn't going to  _do_  anything, not  _really_ , except hang around and get in the way, so, _yeah_ , Steve had to make him leave, _that_ was why he went outside, and.

And he's heard a little bit more, from Dustin, since then, crazy shit about how Billy almost ran the kids over in the street, one time, shit about how Billy _obviously_ hates Lucas but barely even cares that the rest of them _exist_ , even though Lucas is a nice enough kid who keeps to himself and never really starts any trouble with anybody, so what's _that_ about, because it seems to _Steve_ like that can only mean _one_ thing, and it's gross and awful and _fucking_ inexcusable, but.

This is  _different_. 

Billy's a fucking _problem_ , fine, _that's_ true, Steve's known _that_ since Halloween.

Billy's a fucking psycho racist overdramatic dumb jock with anger problems who treats girls like shit,  _fine_ , but Max is Billy's  _sister_. 

And even if she _wasn't_ his sister, she's _still_ just a little kid, and nobody's  _that_  fucking sick.

But maybe Billy is.

Maybe he  _is_  that fucking sick.

He's  _still_  staring down the hall, muscles tensed, something like a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

Steve reminds him, further, "It's just _me_ , and you  _already_ openedthe door." 

" _Yes_ , Harrington, remind me to give you a gold star, later, 'cause that's  _exactly_  what happened," Billy sighs. "But, see, I'm about to  _close_ this door." 

"Oh, yeah, right. Sounds normal. And, uh.  _Why_ , exactly, are you doing that?" 

" _Because_ I can't do  _everything_ for that fucking kid, alright? She's gotta  _learn_ shit." 

"You think she's  _thirteen_ and she...somehow doesn't know how to open up a  _door_?" 

"Not in a  _timely fucking manner_ , obviously,  _no_." 

"Okay, but she was  _taking a shower_ , right?" 

"So  _what_ , Harrington? I'm gonna plan my life out around when some bitch thinks its bathtime?  _Absolutely_  not," Billy hisses, and then, over Billy's shoulder, Steve sees a door start to open, and the one in front of him suddenly slams shut.

Steve doesn't have to strain his ears, doesn't have to step any closer to the house, he can just  _hear_ Billy instantly start screaming bullshit like,  _go answer the fucking door, I swear to God, Max, what the fuck, Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph_ , and Max is exclaiming,  _you could just do it yourself, you're right there, Billy, God_ , and then the door's pulled open, again, and Max is there, hair dark and dripping wet all around her on the floor, and her jaw  _drops_ when she sees Steve, she looks like she wants to close the door so that they can talk without Billy overhearing them, but. 

But Billy's still  _right_ there. 

And again, again, _again_ , because Steve's an idiot and even his fucking _brain_ knows it, wants to remind him that he's in fucking _danger_ , because he's not _acting_ like he is, but he is, he is, he _is_ , there it is, again,  _this whole situation, Harrington, I don't know. It's giving me the heebie jeebies_ , and Steve doesn't _need_ that, doesn't need a _reminder_ , at all, because he  _still_  has fucking  _nightmares_ about that shit, because, okay,  _yeah_ , there's scarier shit than Billy in the world, there's scarier shit than Billy in the fucking Upside Down, but that girl, Mike's little girlfriend, she  _closed_ the Upside Down, right?

Closed the gate. 

So it's  _gone_ , it's  _locked up_ , and the demogorgons and Mind Flayers and demodogs, it's _all_  scary shit,  _yeah_ , but it can't fucking  _touch_ Steve, anymore,  _right_? 

But the thing is, Billy is  _right here_ , on  _this_ side of the gate, and he can touch Steve  _whenever he wants_. 

Steve has nightmares about demogorgons, about the Upside Down, about Billy beating him up. 

Except, sometimes, the nightmare doesn't start at the Byers' place.

Sometimes it starts with Billy sidling up next to him in the showers after basketball, calling him _pretty boy_ , smiling slow and sweet and looking like something that's been fucking  _starved_.

Steve's scared.

He _knows_ it.

There's not a _single_ _part_ of Steve's body, right now, that  _isn't_  aware that he's in a potentially _extremely_ dangerous situation.

This is a ghost story, an old-school scary as hell fairy tale, a fucking  _horror_   _movie_. 

But Steve doesn't fucking  _live_  here.

This isn't Steve's house.

Billy's not Steve's brother.

So, it's a horror movie, but.

It's not  _Steve's_  horror movie. 

Max asks, slowly, "Um, _hi_?"  

"Hi. Is Billy home?" 

"Yes? I mean, he doesn't _go_ anywhere, so he's." She glances over her shoulder, looks at where Billy is leaning against the wall in the hallway, tipping his head back, lighting a cigarette, acting like he can't fucking _hear_ them talking about him. "I mean, do you. You want. To  _talk_ to him?" 

"I mean. I guess, yeah. We got this school trip, after the break, and it's a partnered thing, so I gotta talk to him about it." 

Max nods, moves away from the door, takes two steps down the hall.

It's sick, it's sick, it's _sick_ , because Billy watches her go, then raps one fist against the wall, hard, sharp, _loud_ , snaps, "We have a fucking  _guest_ , Maxine," and she spins around, looking fucking  _furious_.

But then, just like that, she swallows it back, and it's like it never happened.

Anger probably shouldn't be able to turn into fear _that_ fast, but. 

It pretty obviously just _did_.

Max asks him, "Do you want a drink, or something? We have, um. Coke. Or I think we have some Tang—"

"I'm okay, thanks." 

She nods, takes another few steps away, stops. 

When she turns again, Billy just gives her a  _big_ smile.

And it's a fucking  _scary_ one, too.  

It's a shark's smile, a tiger's smile, a fucking  _crocodile's_ smile, right after it's snapped its fucking _jaw_ shut around something, and if.

God.

If a _demogorgon_ could smile, it might look a little bit like Billy does, right now.

Maybe, in the Upside Down, there's a monster wandering around that looks like Billy, and maybe _it's_ a sick fuck that hates everybody, _too_. 

"You can  _go_ now, Maxine." 

She goes. 

 

 

 

 

"So, this is your, um. Room?"

" _Yep_ ," says Billy, leaning back against the windowsill. He waves toward his bed with one hand, lifts his cigarette back up to his mouth with the other, hums, "Mi casa es tu casa."

Steve really only knows _three_ words of Spanish, and he learned them  _all_ from Billy.

He sits down on the edge of Billy's bed, yawns, waits.

Billy exhales a cloud of smoke, shakes his head, translates, " _My_ house is _your_ house, Harrington."

"That's...generous." 

"Yeah, well. You let me have that, I don't. The weird empty room you have." 

"The  _guest_ room? For  _guests_. It's _empty_ , 'cause it's  _there_ for when we have  _guests_." 

" _We_ ," Billy repeats, mockingly. "Interesting way to describe what is, _essentially_ , a house where  _you_...live? All alone?"

" _Hey_ , that's—"

"I mean,  _shit_ , Harrington, don't you got  _parents_?" 

"Yes, I fucking  _do_ , okay?"

"So, what, they don't  _like_ you, or something?"

"What the _fuck_ , no, they. They fucking  _like_ me, Jesus, shut  _up_. I'm  _extremely_ likeable, okay, have you even fucking  _seen_ me, before, ever? There's nothing about me to fucking  _dislike_. _Everybody_ fucking _likes_ me." 

Billy shrugs. "Never see them around town;  _I_ don't know. They nice people?" 

" _What_? I don't. Yeah? I mean, I guess. Why  _wouldn't_ they be _nice_?" 

"People  _aren't_ , always." 

"I  _know_ that, I'm not fucking  _dumb_." 

" _Sure_  you're not, Harrington."

Steve  _wants_ to punch Billy in the face, he wants it  _so_ fucking much, but he's not dumb enough to actually _do_ it. 

Well. 

He _is_ , but he's _still_ got bruises from the last time they got into it, and he's not looking for more, so.

When Billy smiles, he looks like he knows _exactly_ what Steve's thinking. 

Steve stands up, stretches his arms over his head, sighs, "I'm gonna go."

"I thought you wanted to talk to me."

"Uh?"

"About the trip?" 

"Oh, yeah. We can do that another time. I don't wanna waste your whole day, so." 

"You've been here for _sixteen minutes_ ," Billy points out. 

" _Yeah_ ," Steve nods, pulling open Billy's bedroom door, stepping into the hall. "But that's about fifteen and a half _too_ _many_ minutes." 

Billy laughs, behind him, but Steve doesn't say anything else, doesn't turn around, doesn't stop walking. 

Billy's not following him out, or if he _is_ , he's doing it _extremely_ fucking quietly, and Steve's not sure Billy's _capable_ of being quiet.

Steve _still_ feels like he's being watched, stalked, _hunted_ , all the way out of the house, on the drive home, walking up to his front door.

He deadbolts the door, leans back against it, swears, "Jesus _fucking_ Christ." 

 

 

 

 

Steve has to honk his horn _seven_ times before Dustin finally comes out of his house, throws himself into the car, chastises, "You can't rush _art_ , Steve. I'm an _artist_."  

"Really? Thought you were a scientist."

" _Yeah_ , I'm _both_ ," Dustin spits. "Look, maybe this doesn't seem like a big deal to _you_ , but this is _really_ serious, okay? This is the _first_ night of the _rest of my life_ —"

"What the fuck does _that_ mean? _Every night_ is the _first night_ of—"

"Don't _ruin_ this for me, Steve!" 

"Oh my _God_." Steve rolls his eyes, starts driving, says, "Pick some music."

"Really?! _Not_ Springsteen?" 

"I'm not really in a _Born In The USA_ mood."

Dustin's looking at him like he doesn't trust him.

It's _almost_ fair, since Steve's never before _not_ been in a _Born In The USA_ mood, but.

Come _on_.

Suspiciously, Dustin tries, "What about a  _Dancing In The Dark_ mood?" 

"Just not feeling it tonight, Dustin, I don't know." 

"So, I can put on _what ever I want_?!" 

"Can I be real with you?"

"You're _in the Party_ , Steve, you _have_ to be real with me, _all the time_."

" _Okay_ ," Steve shrugs. "So, I haven't got any real sleep in about three weeks, and _all_ I want to fucking eat is _ice cream_ , even though it's _winter_ , and I'm gonna catch bronchitis and _die_ , pretty soon, I think, and I'm failing _two_ classes, and I just _dropped_  basketball, 'causeI have _no_ strength to do _anything_ , at all, _ever_ , but  _definitely_ not enough to throw a ball into a hoop for no reason for two hours a day, so, I mean, _honestly_ , you can do literally  _anything_ you want, 'cause I _can't_ stop you."

Dustin processes all of this, twists his face around thoughtfully, then finally gives him a big smile. "Thanks, Steve!" 

" _Thanks_?! You're thanking me for _what_? For being a malnourished tired _deadbeat_?" 

"Yep!" 

Steve rolls his eyes. " _Anytime_ , man."

Dustin picks through radio station after radio station after radio station, finally settles on one that's playing Quiet Riot's  _Cum On Feel The Noize_.

Steve bites his lip. 

Dustin says, loudly, "You _said_ —"

"Yeah, I _know_ , Jesus!  _Whatever_."

 

 

 

 

Getting Dustin out of the car is pretty easy, but Steve's anticipating a bad return trip. 

Dances are _hard_ , and he wasn't bullshitting Dustin when he told him relationships are hard, _either_. 

If Dustin had life exactly the way he wanted, he'd _always_ be in the Wheeler's basement, or the AV club meeting room, or the arcade. 

He's friends with _two_ girls, which implies the _possibility_ of a pity dance, at least, except both of those girls are spoken for, and even though thirteen-year-olds, as a species, aren't _typically_ well-known for their dancing skills, chances are still _really_ low that Dustin's going to be a big hit with the ladies. 

His hair _does_ look really good, though, and it's not like stranger things haven't ever happened in Hawkins _before_ , so. 

Maybe it'll be okay. 

Steve thinks about pulling into the parking lot to wait, because he promised to pick Dustin up afterward, and it's just the fucking _Snow Ball_ , it's not going to last _that_ long.

All these kids _probably_ still have strictly enforced bedtimes. 

But it's a _middle school parking lot_ , and it's getting dark out, and he's got Billy in his head, slow, cold, predatory, _and_   _then I find her with you? In a strangers' house? And you lie to me about it?_

And Steve doesn't want to be there alone, so he pulls out of the drop-off lane, heads back into town. 

He can barely keep his eyes open.

He needs some sugar. 

 

 

 

 

"Well, well, _well_ ," somebody says, when Steve's already finished drinking one milkshake and is about a third of the way through a second one. "If it isn't _King Steve_ , gracing us _commoners_ with his presence." 

Michael Jackson's _PYT_ is playing on the jukebox, unrepentantly quick and catchy and upbeat, all _we can make it right, hit the city lights_ , and Steve doesn't _have_ to look up, because there's only _one_ person in Hawkins who is _this_ committed to stalking him around town and giving him a hard time, so.

" _Hi_ , Billy." 

" _Hi_ , Harrington." Billy sits down across from him, scrubs a hand down over his face, asks a passing waitress, "Can I get some cherry pie, over here?" 

She glances over her shoulder, eyes Billy up and down, smiles, "Of course you can, baby. We're a little busy, though. Might be a few minutes."

"Not a problem."  

When the waitress moves on, Steve yawns, "You gonna _actually_ eat that?" 

"Get off my _dick_ , pretty boy." Billy leans back in his seat, puts an arm over the back of the bench, smiles. " _You_ look good tonight." 

"Thanks." Steve scoops some of his peanut butter fudge milkshake out of his glass with a spoon, licks it clean, then adds, " _Strangely_ , I also look _exactly_ like I looked when you saw me  _four hours ago_." 

"Yeah, but," and Billy gestures to his own face. "Less of _that_." 

"I think it's just the lighting."

Billy shrugs, and now, it's _weird_ , but Steve can't keep his eyes off his shoulders. 

They're fucking _ridiculous_. 

And from _there_ , of _course_ , he moves onto Billy's _arms_ , which are, hey, again,  _also_ fucking ridiculous.

His shirt's got short sleeves, but at least it's actually buttoned up all the way, tonight, for _once_.

He's only wearing _one_ article of clothing made of denim.

He's _not_ looking at Steve like he wants to eat him alive.

The whole thing is _weird_. 

It's not like he _really_ cares, but Steve asks, "Are you _okay_?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"I don't know, _amigo_ ," Steve lies. "Guess you're just giving me the heebie jeebies." 

Billy laughs delightedly. " _Fuck_ you, _Jesus_." 

They sit in silence for a little bit.

The place _is_ pretty busy tonight, but it's Christmas Eve tomorrow, so maybe that's why.

Steve almost _forgot_ Christmas was coming up, because his parents aren't coming home, and he's doing it by himself, so he didn't put up a tree, or anything, but they had one at Billy and Max's house, and _that_ was pretty crazy.

_Billy_ has a fucking Christmas tree, with lights and ornaments and _everything_ , and Steve _doesn't_. 

If he was still with Nancy, he probably would've bought a tree, asked her to come over tomorrow, have some hot chocolate, fuck on the couch downstairs, or on top of the dining room table, or some other place that would piss off his parents, if they knew. 

But it's almost Christmas, and he's wearing his Ray-Bans in the diner, because it's bright as all hell in here, and he's single, and _Billy_ is there, and.

And Steve still has Billy's leather jacket at home. 

He could invite Billy over for a minute, to pick it up.

Or, he could go get it himself, give it to Billy when he's picking up Max from the dance.  

_Or_ , he could stay right where he is, eating ice cream, feeling sorry for himself, trying not to think about going home and killing himself as soon as he's done driving Dustin home. 

"What happened to your face?"

"Nothing. Just the lighting."

"Lighting doesn't usually _invent_ a split lip." 

"And yet, tonight, it _clearly_ fucking _has_ , Harrington," Billy says, narrowing his eyes. "I'm _bored_. You want to go chill in my car?" 

Steve thinks, _absolutely no way, you fucking psycho freak_. 

But Steve's so _tired_ , and he's still gotta kill some time before the dance is over, and, anyway, Billy's _gotta_ know that if Steve mysteriously dies tonight, _everybody's_ going to _immediately_ assume it was Billy who murdered him, so.

"Yeah, whatever." 

 

 

 

 

They ditch out of the diner before Billy gets his pie.

Steve only bites back an _I told you so_ because Billy's got one hand gripping at the back of his shirt when he walks them over to his car, shoves Steve against the side of it before he rummages around through his glove compartment, pulls out a joint, says, "I'm _not_  about to let you hit this if you've never done it before, you hear me? I'm _me_ , not _you_ , so babysitting virgins is _not_ a thing that I do." 

Steve thinks, _nobody in their right mind would ever let you babysit anybody._

Steve thinks, _I smoked your fucking pot yesterday._

Steve thinks, _I haven't been a virgin since I was fourteen._

Steve says, "I _know_ how to _get high_ , Hargrove." 

"If you're lying, I'm gonna hit you in the face." 

Yeah.

Steve doesn't doubt that.

"Duly noted."

 

 

 

 

Just to be clear, Billy  _is_  still an asshole. 

But, it turns out that he's an asshole who turns _Born In The USA_ up _real_ loud, when he's stoned, and that's the _exact same_ kind of asshole that Steve is, _too_ , so. 

He can maybe call a truce with him, just for tonight. 

This doesn't make them _friends_. 

When the song ends, Billy groans around an exhale, " _Man_ , Springsteen fucking _knows_." 

"Knows? Knows _what_?" 

" _Kicked around like a dog that's been beat too much_ ," Billy sing-songs, too slow and too loud and not _actually_ how the song goes. " _That's_ good shit. That's fucking. _Real life_ , you feel me?" 

"Yeah. I feel you. I guess?" 

"No, you fucking _don't_ , pretty boy," Billy sneers, cuts his eyes down at his wristwatch, swears, "Oh, _fuck me_."

"What?"

"I gotta go get the _fucking_ step." 

Steve grabs Billy's arm, lifts it up so he can see, too, then groans, "That's _so late_ , Hargrove! The dance was over _twenty-five minutes ago_ , shit—" 

"Don't you think I _know_ that? Fuck, let _go_ of me, _Jesus_ ," Billy snaps, yanking his arm away from Steve, pulling out of the parking lot before Steve really registers what's going on. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_." 

"Uh. I'm still in your car." 

" _Yeah_ , I fucking _know_ , but you gotta get that kid, _anyway_ , so we'll get Max, get him, get _you_ back _here_ , then I'll take _her_ home, and fucking _hopefully_ , I'm not gonna get fucking _murdered_."

Steve doesn't really know what the last part of that means, but he rolls with it, because Billy sounds fucking _frantic_. "Okay. That's what we'll do."  

 

 

 

 

Max is outside the middle school, waiting, with Dustin and Lucas and Mike and Will.

Just behind them, Nancy and Jonathan are making out. 

Steve doesn't say anything when Billy screeches to a stop _right_ in front of Max, hits the horn three times even though she's already walking over, waving at the Party over her shoulder, then. 

" _Steve_?" 

" _Hey_ , Mad Max," he greets her, tilting his head back, smiling out the open window. "Have fun?" 

"Um, yeah. Thanks. You _know_ you're wearing your sunglasses, right?" 

Steve didn't really know, actually, but that explains a _lot_.

He'd _thought_ it was way too dark, but when he _said_ so, Billy just laughed at him.

"So what?" 

"So, it's _nighttime_." 

Billy rests a hand against Steve's thigh when he leans over him to look at Max, to glare, to snarl, "Would you go get that  _fucking_ kid, Maxine? You _girls_ can _chitchat_ some other time, we gotta _go_ , quit _wasting_ my _fucking_ time." 

For a second, Max just _stares_ at Billy, but then she looks at Steve, looks back at everybody else, shouts, "Hey! _Dustin_!" 

 

 

 

 

"So," Dustin starts, when they're back in the diner's parking lot, watching Billy and Max speed away, getting into Steve's car. " _That_ was weird." 

"Nope."

" _Very_ weird. _And_? Out of character, actually. Hey, are you _possessed_?" 

" _What_?"

"If you _are_ , you probably can't tell me, but you _can_ hear me, so. Just know that I'm gonna look into it, and if there's a demon in there, we'll take care of it!"

" _Who_?"

"Me and the guys! And El. And Max." 

Steve rolls his eyes. "I am not _possessed_ , Henderson, I am just on _drugs_." 

Dustin gives him that patronizing smile, again. " _Sure_ you are, Steve. _Whatever_ you say." 

" _Christ,_ " Steve groans. "You have a good time, at least?" 

It takes a minute, but finally Dustin responds, "Yeah, definitely."

"Meet any girls?"

" _Steve_ , I've _known_ all those girls since _fourth grade_." 

Steve starts the car, and on the radio, Tina Turner's crooning, _what's love, but a sweet old-fashioned notion_ , and the overhead lights come on, and.

Dustin's eyes are red. 

Steve's probably are, _too_ , but. 

Somehow, Steve doesn't think Dustin's been getting stoned. 

"Hey. That place with the chocolate chip pancakes. How late are they open?" 

"Probably not that late," says Dustin, _way_ too focused on putting on his seat belt, looking out the window, biting at his nails. "It's Sunday. And it's almost Christmas. And—"

"Wanna try going there, anyway?"

"I. I kinda just wanna go home."

 

 

 

  

It's a quiet drive.

_Sister Christian_ plays, _Like A Virgin_ plays, _Karma Chameleon_ plays, and Steve makes sure to drop the volume down low right before he gets to Dustin's, parks, says, "You tell _anybody_ I said this, and I'll _deny_ it, and then I'll _kill_ you, but. You're my best friend, Dustin."

"Okay," Dustin smiles. It's a forced fake _I'm about to cry_ smile. Steve's never seen Dustin look like that. He doesn't want to see it again. "Thanks again for driving me, Steve. And for the hair. And the tip about the bow tie."

Steve keeps his voice as light as he can, when he says, "What, like I was gonna let you walk in there looking like a loser? Nah. And I did _good_ , too, 'cause you look fucking _sharp_ , my man." 

"Yeah, but," Dustin bites his lip, looks at Steve, quickly changes his mind and looks straight ahead, instead. "None of the girls, um. Wanted? To dance with me. They just. They  _laughed_ at me." 

"Sorry, man," Steve says, after a few minutes of silence. 

It's too _many_ minutes, because he's a fucking useless piece of shit.

He doesn't know what the fuck to _do_ , though.

It's not like he can say, _oh, I've been there, that's rough, I know, but it'll get better someday._

Or, he _could_ say it, but Dustin would fucking _know_  it was bullshit.

Girls have been flirting with Steve since he was in the _second grade_.

"But, um. Nancy danced with me."

Of _course_ she did.

Steve can practically _see_ it.

Girls awkwardly standing around in their first pairs of high heels, laughing at some science nerd _daring_ to ask them to dance, but then he's suddenly dancing with a cool high school girl, wait, what the _fuck_ , how did _that_ happen? 

"I bet _that_ made those girls lose their fucking _minds_ , right?"

Dustin smiles shakily, but he doesn't say anything, and.

Nancy was obviously just trying to help, but it looks like she didn't, really.

Steve's not _really_ trying to help, because he doesn't know _how_ , but he's obviously _still_ just making it worse. 

That's what Steve _does_.

That's his _specialty_.

_Bullshit_. 

Maybe he should call Jonathan. 

That fucker's better than Steve at _everything_ , right? 

Why not this, too? 

Steve's still a little stoned, and so he coughs out a laugh, thinking about awkward creepy nervous Jonathan Byers trying to give _anybody_ girl advice, and that's when Dustin inhales sharply, quickly rubs a sleeve across his face, blinks a few times and mutters, "I gotta go in before my mom, um. I."

Steve nods, lets Dustin get halfway up the driveway before he gets out of the car, follows him up, calling, "Hey, don't make fun of me, okay?" 

Dustin stops, turns, asks, " _What_?" 

"Can I sleep on your couch?"

"Um. Why?" 

"We're friends, and I wanna have a sleepover?"

Dustin squints at him. "Are you _sure_ you're not possessed?" 

"I mean, I'm _mostly_ sure, yeah." 

Dustin pulls a key out from under the welcome mat by the front door. "Okay, but Mom's probably asleep, so we gotta be quiet." 

 

 

 

 

It's quiet at Dustin's house.

Steve can't sleep.

He can't stay still, he can't fucking  _breathe_ , and he _definitely_ can't sleep.  

He can't just _leave_ , though, not after he made _such_ a big fucking deal out of coming in, in the _first_ place, and. 

He ends up in the kitchen. 

His throat feels like it's closing up. 

There's no ice cream, because it's fucking _December_ , and Dustin's not Steve, Dustin's got a mom who loves him and looks after him and doesn't want him to get cavities in his teeth, probably, so there's _no_ fucking ice cream, and Steve puts an ice cube in his mouth, tips his head back, thinks about drowning until he _realizes_ he's thinking about drowning and forces himself to stop. 

He sits back down on the couch, wraps the dumb _Star Trek_ blanket around his shoulders, stares at the Hendersons' Christmas tree. 

_He_ doesn't have a tree. 

He forgot about that, again. 

How'd he forget that _so_ fucking fast?

Is he really  _that_ fucking stupid?

_Jesus_ , is _that_ why he wanted to sleep at Dustin's house?

It's Christmas Eve, now, technically, and _his_ house is empty, and he's going to be _alone_ , once he walks in there. 

He thought he was doing something _nice_ , coming in to cheer Dustin up, except. 

No. 

No, it wasn't _about_ Dustin.

It was all about _Steve_.

Just like it's _always_ about Steve.

Billy says, in his head, _King Steve wants to be Babysitter of the Year._

Nancy says, in his head, _no, you! You're bullshit._

Tommy says, in his head, _oh, shit! You don't know!_

No matter how far Steve thinks back, he can't remember a time when he ever felt _this_ fucking pathetic.

 

 

 

 

He didn't see too much of the Upside Down.

But maybe, like with Billy, there's a monster kicking around there that looks like _Steve_ , and maybe _it_ fucks everything up for everybody else, _too_. 

 

 

 

 

"Hey," Steve calls out, when he gets out of his car at five-forty. "What're you doing?" 

"Eating," says Billy, who is sitting on top of his car, with half of a hash brown hanging out of his mouth. His face is a fucking _mess_ , today. Before the part where he got back in his car with Dustin, last night is mostly just a drugged-up blur of a memory in his head, but Steve _definitely_ remembers Billy saying _just the lighting_ , and that was _obviously_ a fucking lie, because the sun's not up yet, but under the streetlights that shine over the McDonald's parking lot, Billy's _clearly_ got a black eye, a split lip, some kind of reddish bruise slowly blooming to life on his jaw. "Obviously."

" _Obviously_ ," Steve echoes. 

"Why are you _so_ goddamn _weird_ , Harrington?" 

"I can't sleep."

It's a stupid thing to admit to fucking _Billy_ , especially when he hasn't told anybody else except Dustin.

He likes Dustin a _lot_ more than he likes Billy.

Not that that's saying much, because he doesn't like Billy at _all_. 

" _Why_ do we live in a universe where you feel like you should be telling me shit like that?"

Steve was planning on going in to McDonald's for some soft serve vanilla ice cream, because his throat _still_ fucking hurts and the grocery store's not opening until ten and he realized around three that it was pointless to hang around Dustin's place, today, because he _wasn't_ going to be able to cheer him up, or make anything _better_ , or do _anything_ except get in the way of other people having a nice time, just like he _always_ fucking does. 

He heaves himself up on top of Billy's car, too, says, "I don't control the whole fucking _universe_ , Hargrove." 

"Yeah, well, then you _continue_ to fucking disappoint me, _King Steve_."

Steve asks, again, "What happened to your face?" 

Billy laughs, and it's not loud crazy _violent_ laughter, just.

A laugh.

A tired one, maybe.

He's still laughing when he explains, "Got home late."

Steve doesn't really know what that means. 

He changes the subject.

"I'm gonna go get some ice cream."

"Harrington, I _don't_ _care_."

"You want some pie, or something?" 

Billy stops laughing. " _What_?"

 

 

 

 

Steve gets home just before six-thirty. 

There's still some of Billy's weed left, in the pocket of that jacket. 

There's still a bottle of whiskey upstairs, in Dad's office, that doesn't _exactly_ have Steve's name written on it, but it might as fucking well. 

There's still a pool outside that Steve could drown in. 

Drowning can't be _that_ hard. 

Everybody thought Will drowned, that time he was in the Upside Down. 

If a little kid can be presumed drowned on accident, an almost grown man like Steve can _definitely_ drown himself on _purpose_. 

He stands still in the hallway, still like a demogorgon waiting to catch the scent of blood, still like Billy smoking and grinning at Steve outside the Byers' house, still like he doesn't _belong_ here, like Steve's doing something _wrong_  just by being in his _own fucking house_. 

Steve knows himself pretty well.

He doesn't know _what_ he's going to do yet, but he _knows_ if he takes even _one_ more step, he's not going to stop moving.

Until he does, anyway. 

He pulls off his windbreaker, lets himself sink down to sit against the wall, lights a cigarette. 

 

 

 

 

The phone rings. 

The phone rings, rings, _rings_ , and Steve wakes up, and his house hasn't burned down around him, but his fingers are stinging around the remnants of his cigarette, and he stands up, starts to stumble down the hall, drops the smoke into a vase. 

There's flowers in it, but they're too dead to be pretty anymore, so it doesn't matter. 

Mom asked him to throw them out, before she and Dad left. 

Steve forgot, but.

It doesn't _matter_.

The phone rings, again, and he _doesn't_ want to answer it. 

It could be Mom, or Dad, or Dustin, or Mike, or Will, or Nancy, or Jonathan, or Max, or Billy, or Hopper, or fucking _anybody_ , but it wouldn't _matter_ , because Steve doesn't want to talk to _anyone_. 

He tries to think about it like someone who's rational, grown-up, responsible.

It could be important. 

That's the only reason anyone calls him, anymore. 

So, it's something important, or.

Or, someone needs a ride to the fucking movies, or the roller rink, or the arcade.

Except it's _Christmas_. 

_No one's_ going to the fucking arcade. 

So, it's important. 

He should answer it. 

The phone rings, rings, rings. 

Steve reaches out, ghosts his fingertips over the receiver, bites his lip.

The phone stops ringing, and Steve goes upstairs, locks his door, gets in bed. 

_Lots_ of things sleep during the daytime, right? 

Rats, bats, owls. 

It's not exactly _great_ company to be in, but.

At least it's not just him. 

 

 

 

 

Steve startles awake when his alarm goes off, when the radio starts up, when that guy from The Eagles starts singing  _come on, baby, don't say maybe, I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me_.

Nancy likes that song. 

_Take It Easy_. 

Steve likes it, too, usually, but.

His alarm  _shouldn't_  be waking him up, today.

It's Christmas Eve, but it's a  _Monday_ , and Steve  _forgot_  to turn off the alarm, just like he fucking forgets  _everything_ , because he's a  _goddamn_  moron, and he's sure as hell awake  _now_ , he's  _definitely_  not getting back to sleep  _now_ , so. 

He doesn't even know why he keeps  _trying_  to sleep. 

Everybody says it for a _reason_ , right?

There's no rest for the fucking wicked. 

The phone rings. 

Steve crawls out of bed, cracks his neck, yawns into the phone, "Harrington residence?"

**Author's Note:**

> title from _sweatpants_ by childish gambino.
> 
> i ended up with a shocking amount of deleted scenes after editing this so there should be more fic set in this verse probably idk.  
>  


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